


Victor, Lost Among Roses

by LittleLostStar



Series: Born to Make (Art) History - Promo Telephone Game [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Butt Jokes, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Thirsty Katsuki Yuuri, blink and you'll miss it Phichimetti, born to make art history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: Victor, Lost Among Roses.It’s the title that caps it all off, scrawled in ink along the inner edge of the canvas. The subject of the painting is entirely aware of the artist’s eye; he isn’t being stumbled upon in a clearing, but has instead chosen to expose himself—in a very literal sense—to the viewer. He’s pulled out of time and space, ageless and timeless and untethered from anything that could attach a real human being to his stunning image. It’s weirdly dizzying; the title has echoed around in Yuuri’s head for weeks and weeks. He knows it might just be a quirk of his own mind—that this particular collection of hues and brush strokes are composed to precisely appeal to the neurons in Yuuri’s brain that define and recognize beauty. He’s never had this kind of a reaction to any other piece of art, nude or otherwise. The painting is so beautiful, so intimate, that Yuuri has come to see it at least a dozen times in the past month alone.Phichit’s eyes narrow. “Is this an objectophilia thing? Like that woman who married a bridge?”“No,” Yuuri replies. “It’s just…I don’t know. It’s a beauty thing.”“Could we steal it instead?” Phichit offers. “It’d look great above the toilet in your bathroom.”





	Victor, Lost Among Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as part of the promotional telephone game for the Born to Make (Art) History zine! It was a hoot and a holler and I'm thrilled to share it with all of you now. Make sure to read and view everything in order to see how things evolved!

“This is by far the worst idea you’ve ever had, and I say that as a member of the very small faction who witnessed the Fake Orchid Meltdown of ‘03.”

Yuuri scoffs. “Okay first of all, how dare you. You promised we’d never speak of that again.” 

Chris shoots a glance at Phichit, who’s covering his mouth with his hand in a failed attempt to mask his laughter. “Phichit, darling, should I tell him about the t-shirts you made?” 

Normally Yuuri would dissolve into anxious hysterics at the idea that his best friends were wandering around the city wearing something that probably says “I Survived Yuuri Katsuki Accidentally Killing The Dean of Art’s Prized Orchid Via a One-Two Punch of a Fake Lion and Literal Fire, And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt”, but he’s distracted. How could he pay attention to anything else but the painting he’s dragged his friends to see?

_ Victor, Lost Among Roses _ . That’s the title of the piece, and it’s perfect, because  _ everything _ about the painting is perfect. A young man with silver-blonde hair—the Victor of the title, Yuuri assumes—nude, resting with his back to the viewer; he lies on a cloth that is wrinkled artfully but spontaneously, as if it’s a robe he’s only just discarded. Victor is surrounded by greenery studded with roses, and nothing else; no water, no grass, not even a horizon line. 

Yuuri is five years into his two-year Master’s Degree in fine art, and yet he’d never seen this painting before it showed up at the museum. While its authenticity has been proven, its origins remain a mystery; it was painted sometime around the mid-19th century, and its imagery is sprinkled with references to Hellenistic sculpture. The artist has yet to be identified, but whoever they were, they clearly adored their subject. And, honestly, so does Yuuri. 

_ Victor, Lost Among Roses _ . It’s the title that caps it all off, scrawled in ink along the inner edge of the canvas. The subject of the painting is entirely aware of the artist’s eye; he isn’t being stumbled upon in a clearing, but has instead chosen to expose himself—in a very literal sense—to the viewer. He’s pulled out of time and space, ageless and timeless and untethered from anything that could attach a real human being to his stunning image. It’s weirdly dizzying; the title has echoed around in Yuuri’s head for weeks and weeks. He knows it might just be a quirk of his own mind—that this particular collection of hues and brush strokes are composed to precisely appeal to the neurons in Yuuri’s brain that define and recognize beauty. He’s never had this kind of a reaction to any other piece of art, nude or otherwise. The painting is so beautiful, so  _ intimate _ , that Yuuri has come to see it at least a dozen times in the past month alone. 

(It is in fact his fifteenth time. He’s halfway through his second museum attendance punch card. He’s made friends with the docents, Sara and Mila, and has established a positively Nick-and-Nora-esque repartee with the security guard, Otabek, insofar as they will nod silently to each other each time Yuuri comes to the gallery, and will occasionally buy each other a coffee without a single word or dollar bill exchanged.)

“It’s his ass, isn’t it?” Phichit says, to which Yuuri punches him in the arm without looking. “Hey, ow! But Yuuri, seriously, there’s ass worship and then there’s, like,  _ ass  _ worship. Even Sir Mix-a-Lot would give pause here. I worry about your morals, young man.” 

“Children,” Chris says, a hair too loudly, “if you can’t play nice I’m going to turn the car around and we’ll go home.” 

Yuuri grins, his eyes never leaving the painting. “That’s cool, I’ve got what I came for.” He cradles his camera to his chest. He’s taken a half-dozen reference photos, careful to avoid using the flash, and has several dozen other sketches, made while sitting on the very convenient (but hideously uncomfortable) bench situated right in front of the piece. 

“Yuuri, real talk,” Phichit says, sitting down on that very bench. “When we told you to get a tattoo, we were  _ kidding _ .” 

“I wasn’t,” Chris adds, “but, like, can’t you start with a little heart that says ‘Mom’ on it first? Or a barbed wire around your bicep? Y’know, starter tats? Do you really need to go full steam ahead to whatshisname from  _ Red Dragon _ ?”

“Francis Dolarhyde,” Yuuri says automatically, because he’s the kind of well of random information that creates both sworn enemies and best friends at any given bar trivia night, depending on whose team he’s on. “And this isn’t the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? You’re gonna get a painting tattooed on your back. That’s kind of a big commitment.” Chris and Phichit had recently moved in together, a step towards long-term settling down which had taken them seven years of desperate and wary circling around the issue; as a result, ‘commitment’ had recently become Chris’ favourite word, which was about ten percent obnoxious and ninety percent adorable.

Yuuri shrugs. “I’ve never loved a painting as much as I love this one,” he says simply. 

Phichit’s eyes narrow. “Is this an objectophilia thing? Like that woman who married a bridge?” 

“No,” Yuuri replies. “It’s just…I don’t know. It’s a beauty thing.” 

“Could we steal it instead?” Phichit offers. “It’d look great above the toilet in your bathroom.” 

Otabek the security guard cracks up laughing. Yuuri nearly has a heart attack. 

~

Yuuri’s first appointment with the tattoo artist is the next day, and he lies awake for hours even though he was told to get a good night’s rest. When he finally does fall asleep, his dreams are vivid and fitful—scraps of imagery and sound, barely held together with the thinnest threads of even the most remote of dream logic. But then Yuuri finds himself in an art gallery, and he turns to see the man in the painting standing next to him. 

“Yuuri,” the man—Victor—says, “I have something to tell you.” 

Yuuri blinks. They’re suddenly lying together on a silvery cloth that compliments Victor’s hair, and in the periphery of his vision Yuuri can see they’re surrounded by greenery. Victor’s hand comes to rest on Yuuri’s bare hip. 

“I’m Erato, the muse of love and art,” Victor says. “You are my next patron. I’ve chosen you, and you’ve chosen me.” 

“Oh?” Yuuri replies a little more flirtatiously than he intended. “And how is that?” 

“No one sees me the way you see me,” Victor replies. “You are not the first to want to consume me. The great sculptor Arcésilas tried to carve my image into his skin, but his assistant stayed his hand.” 

Yuuri knows he should probably be at least a little unnerved by this information, never mind the fact that he’s having a conversation with the subject of a painting he apparently likes a little too much, but he’s utterly entranced by the lines of Victor’s body, the way his shoulder curves, the tiny hints of shadow along the divots of his ribs. “Mm. What should I do instead?” 

Victor leans close, and Yuuri smells the distinct scent of roses. 

“Capture me,” he whispers. “Show the world your love for me. Remake my form in your image, however you please. Call me by a new name, if you’d like. Trust and believe this to be true, sweet artist. Your life calling is now before you.” 

And that’s when Yuuri snaps awake, heart pounding, and he sits up straight in bed. It takes him a few moments to come to his senses, but the dream doesn’t fade the way others do; it remains vivid and clear, more like a memory. 

Yuuri turns to retrieve his glasses from his night table and winces as stinging pain shoots through his left side, He pulls his T-shirt up, fumbling to put on his glasses as he does, and—

— _ what the— _

He’s got a tattoo. 

It’s not new, either; it’s almost fully healed, with just a little bit of redness around the edges. A beautiful, perfect rose, surrounded by greenery. It is, in fact, a rose from the painting, exactly recreated on his skin.

Yuuri grabs his camera and turns it on, flicking through his pictures to find the reference photos he took the day before—but they’re not there. The images jump from two post-museum selfies with Phichit and Chris all the way back to an engagement party Yuuri shot for a couple of friends a few weeks ago. 

_ What the fuck? _

Yuuri scrambles out of bed and grabs his notebook, which he’s filled with sketches of the painting and its various parts. He opens the book to a blank page, right in the middle. He flips forward; he flips back. Every single sketch of  _ Victor, Lost Among Roses _ is gone, as if they’d never existed at all. 

Panic begins to rise in his throat, and he’s dressed and out the door in record time. 

The museum is still mostly empty; it’s a Tuesday morning, just at the very start of the day. Yuuri forces himself to walk through the gallery, rounding a corner to get to the—

—he stops dead. 

The painting is gone. 

Yuuri goes cold, his mouth falling open in shock, and he drops onto the bench with a  _ thud _ as his knees go weak. The tattoo on his side stings, almost like a reminder, and Yuuri clenches his hand into a fist instead of scratching at it. He’s still frozen in place, letting the waves of shock roll over him, denial obliterating his view. No one told him the painting was being moved, and Yuuri had asked. It wasn’t for sale; it wasn’t part of a visiting exhibition. There isn’t even a fade in the wall to show where the painting had once hung.  _ Victor, Lost Among Roses _ is just...lost. 

Yuuri is breathing through the first beats of a panic attack when he notices movement in his periphery. Someone sits down on the bench right beside him, their thighs actually touching. 

“Yuuri,” the stranger says, and Yuuri looks up to see a flash of silver-blonde hair hidden beneath a hat. He gasps. 

“It’s—are you—”

Victor holds one finger to his lips, and winks. “I’ve given you what you wanted,” he whispers, casting his glance down to Yuuri’s torso. “Now it’s time for you to give me what I need.” 

“I need the painting back,” Yuuri blurts, clapping his hand over his mouth as he realizes what he’s said. 

Victor chuckles. “It’s gone,” he says, “as if it never was. Your friends will forget. The city will forget. The world will forget, just as it has every other iteration of my form. But you won’t, because you will create me anew. A piece of art that will draw visitors from far and wide. A work so incredible, so monumental, that it will give you the attention and praise that you deserve, for the rest of your life; and then it will be forgotten, your name lost to history, until it is time for the next patron to discover me.” 

“I—” Yuuri looks down at his shoes. “Why me?” 

Victor laughs, and Yuuri thinks of a cascade of roses. “Don’t mistake this for pity,” he replies. “The patron picks the muse, and is simultaneously chosen by the gods. Your talent and your eye, alone, are suited for this task. So,” he holds out his hand. “Do we have an accord?”

_ I’m still dreaming, _ Yuuri thinks, before reaching out to grasp Victor’s hand. Victor pulls him close, wrapping his other arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and leaning down to whisper in his ear. 

“You are awake, my love,” he murmurs. “But this is the last time we will see each other this way.” 

“Please,” Yuuri whispers back. “I can’t lose you.” 

Victor pulls back and grins, his beauty almost blinding. 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to paint me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [Tumblr](https://iwritevictuuri.tumblr.com), so come say hi!


End file.
